For Venezia, Always
by M. Rosenkov
Summary: Intimate fragments showing the delicate (oft imaginary) relationship between Catherine O'Dell and Ezio Auditore. {AC2; canon; past setting (no Animus)}


**Disclaimer: **I don't own Ezio or the storyline [obviously]. This novel was inspired by _Glycerine_, by Bush. I DO take credit for Catherine O'Dell and any of her affiliations.

**Author's Note: **I have been suffering badly from lack of inspiration and awful writing so I'm sorry in advance for mistakes/poor flow/etc if it's here. This is my first try into the Assassin's Creed fandom - the story itself is approx. 9 chapters long. I won't bore you with details, so... here's a story! Prepare for fluff, romance and feel good squishiness.

P.S. Thank you Monica and farmgirl for being so incredibly patient and amazing when I needed you two most.

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**FOR VENEZIA, ALWAYS**

**M. Rosenkov**

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**{PROLOGUE}**

_It's not my kind  
It's not my time__ to wonder why_

—_Glycerine, _Bush

* * *

In the beginning, when they first met, Ezio Auditore was young and did not understand.

His world was black and white. Good and bad. And he—he was a good man, standing alone in a bad world. A good man who had it all figured out.

So he thought.

It was another routine; another cog in the wheel of motions passing through his life. A building entered, a page stolen, and blood on his sword anticipated. Predicted. _Expected_. The sun hung in the sky, warming the city of Firenze and pulling the citizens out of their homes and into the streets. They ambled down the alleys, crowded the Piazza's, filling the city with shouts and laughter and cheers. It sounded like his home, but it wasn't. Not really.

His target house had five guards lined up out the front. They were bored, but alert, bullying and pushing people who made the mistake of meandering too close to them. He had perched himself on the building opposite, patiently waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike—and he thought he had it, he really did. A crowd—large, with twenty or so people—passed by the house, and he was just about to jump down when, one-by-one, the five guards at the front fell to their knees, and to their death.

It was quick, immediate and painless. It was quiet, stealthy and concealed.

And he—he was … impressed.

Seconds passed, pregnant with his waiting, before the crowd around realised. Screams broke through the city, piercing the sky; madness followed, as both men and women scrambled from the corpses in haste. He barely paid attention to them though, as there was one person that stood out in the crowd—one woman not hitching up her skirt and running away. One woman not panicked.

She took her leave, sliding from the chaos with a quick glance over her shoulder. Ezio blinked, the door shut, and she was nowhere to be seen.

More guards quickly converged on the area, moving the bodies and questioning the witnesses still gathered around. Welcoming the distraction, Ezio climbed down from the roof, landing in front of the building unnoticed with an inaudible _thud_. Sliding his sword from its sheath, he entered the house, quietly closing the door behind him.

It was dark inside, but he could see her clearly. She had her back to him, hands deep inside the chest in the middle of the room. Pulling something out with a small _'Huh'_, she turned around.

If she was surprised to see him there, she did not show it. In fact, she smirked as his sword slid beneath her chin, point resting against her milky-white skin.

"That," he said, gesturing with his empty hand to the scroll she held, "is mine, signorina."

"It is that valuable to you?" she asked in fluent Italian. She seemed unaware of the sword at her throat, or the threatening scowl of his voice. "It meant naught to me, but now …"

Another smirk. He frowned, warning, "I do not think you know who you are dealing with."

"Oh? I think it is you who does not know who they are dealing with… Ezio Auditore."

Ezio faltered at the sound of his name. He couldn't help it. The sword in his hand drooped, and his frown deepened beneath his hood. His eyes travelled up and down her body, as if he somehow missed something before—something important. He wasn't one to be so careless, but this was new to him—a delicate situation, an unguided path.

She, herself, was unrecognisable. She was not of Firenze, either: blonde hair was dressed into a neat bun pinned at her neck, and grey eyes watched him carefully, gauging for a reaction. Her dress was of the finest cloths, but it was not familiar—not of his world.

Their eyes met, and he couldn't help but breathe out a low chuckle. "Who are you, signorina?"

Her eyes flicked to the sword at her throat, and then back to him. He lowered it, and she stepped forward towards him.

"Follow me."

It was not an invitation, but a command. Sheathing his sword, Ezio obeyed, taking his place several steps behind her, forwarded on by curiosity. She did not appear dangerous—not yet. But she knew him, and that kind of familiarity warranted his caution.

The chaos outside had died, the guards had disbanded, and the noise had quietened back into its usual city hum. She moved through the crowd swiftly, hips swaying and steps light as her gown swirled at her feet. It wasn't until they were a fair way from the building that she fell into step beside him, passing over the Codex. He took it, throwing her a fleeting, grateful glance.

"I have been waiting to meet you, Mister Auditore," she said, voice low. She slipped between a couple, breaking from him momentarily and almost disappearing. He picked up his pace to stay by her side. "You are quite popular here in Firenze."

He laughed, sending her a small smile. "You seem to know of me quite well, signorina, but I still do not know of you."

"I suppose that is fair," she mused. "My name is Catherine O'Dell, of England. I am here in Firenze for … a delicate business matter. In here—"

Taking his wrist in her hand, she steered him into a tight courtyard. It was alive with shrubs and flowers of all kinds—a cacophony of colour in an otherwise bleak city. A small door was hidden between two trees, and she opened it, waving him inside and closing it quickly. Candlelight ignited the house, casting shadows across her sharp features. She followed him in, pausing by a pillar and gesturing to a table on his left.

"More," was all she said.

Ezio looked at the desk, smiling to himself when he saw the five Codex pages stacked neatly on the surface. Walking over, he took them up, pocketing them swiftly.

"This business in Firenze," he started, looking back over to her. "Does it have anything to do with these pages?"

She folded her arms, shaking her head. "No. They were merely a curiosity. Had I known you were looking for them too, I would have done this long ago."

He smirked, stepping towards her. "You were looking for me?"

"No," she answered coolly. "Again, curiosity. The word is… you are an Assassin."

"Do you believe that?" he asked, again moving closer.

He towered over her now, and she looked up to meet his eyes. Her gaze was challenging—intriguing. She seemed either unaware of his flirtatious remarks, or disinterested. He was hoping it was not the latter; the candlelight flecked her eyes with blue, and the dainty smattering of freckles across her nose was innocent—tempting. It reminded him of the first girl he kissed, years ago, in a time long passed. What was her name again?

"I do now," Catherine quipped, dragging him back into the present.

"And you?" he asked, pulling down his hood to see her better. She cocked her head to the side, eyes roaming his face greedily, as though she could not take him in fast enough. "What you did to those guards back there was impressive. Where did you learn a skill such as that?"

"It is my job. I am a mercenary—of sorts. And those guards back there were harassing innocent people."

Unexpected. "You…" Pausing, he searched her face. She betrayed no emotion. "You are a mercenario?"

She shook her head, pulling away from him and walking further into the house. The soft _thud _of her steps and _swish_ of her gown was the only sound between them. He watched her back carefully, thoughts cascading through his mind—all incoherent. All confusing.

"Not… Really." She sighed, rubbing her temple as she turned back to face him. "Not as you know. I work alone, and in the shadows. An assassin for hire… it is my job."

He frowned, and she coloured.

"I fear I am not explaining myself well." Her eyes flickered to the roof, and she said, "You—I know of you through heresy. You fight for the honour of your family. The Auditore Assassin that did not die." Her eyes met his, then, frowning. "You are selfish. Your skills are used for personal gain—"

"You do not know what I do," he snapped, cutting her off. He pointed at her, remembering … remembering his little brother at the noose, barely tall enough the reach the rope; his sister sitting alone in the office, bored and lost and lonely… His mother, perched by the bed, forever in prayer; mute, unaware, gone—gone, without his father. His life, now. "What do you want from me?"

"Nothing," she replied, eyes darkening.

The world crushed him then; every colour, sound and movement heightened, until it was almost a blur. Catherine twitched, right arm jerking, pleading for the dagger she sloppily hid in her left sleeve. Her breathing was even, precise—the rise and fall of her chest was monotonous—a talent she had mastered; but he could see her neck tensing, blood pumping into her veins, colour draining from her cheeks. Human nature had overcome her poor training, and he had her at an advantage.

"You asked me a question," she breathed, voice almost inaudible.

He dropped his hand then, prepared to hear what she had to say. Relief flooded her features, and she looked away, embarrassed, eyes roaming the house like she had not seen it before.

"I work for the common man," she continued turning back to him, tone louder, more confident. "The wife whose husband cheats; the murderer who slaughters a father's child. I find them, and I kill them. _That_ is my job. There is no name—it just is."

"You kill innocents?" he asked, unable to keep the incredulity from his voice.

"Are they innocent? How are they any more innocent than the Borgia's you hunt?" He blinked, surprised, and she asked, "You think people have not noticed you hunt this family?"

"It is the Borgia's that threaten the whole of Italy. They threaten everyone," he spat through gritted teeth. He eyed her as carefully as she did him, and a beat—small, awkward, tense—passed, before, "Firenze does not need your business here, Catherine O'Dell."

His words were calm, but the room fizzed with a thick, impenetrable tension. She silenced then, watching as he raised his hood again and turned. He did not thank her for the Codex pages. He did not say goodbye.

Ezio Auditore was young, and he did not understand.


End file.
